


The Withered Lover

by Steggellettea94



Series: 13 Ghosts Rewrite [4]
Category: Original Work, Thir13en Ghosts (2001)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Homophobia, Mental Illness, Old Understanding of Mental Illness, Religious Imagery, Time Period Specific Mental Illness, death of a child, death of children, discussion of religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 22:53:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20496668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steggellettea94/pseuds/Steggellettea94
Summary: A young woman returns to her home town and is forced to relive the town's past and her own.





	The Withered Lover

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rewrite of the movie Thirteen Ghosts. Each short story will follow one of the ghosts, how they died, and how they were taken to the house. The Thirteen Ghosts Wiki says the First Born Son is represented by Aires, the ram; as a bonus - for lack of better word - twelve of the stories will contain the symbol of the astrological zodiac - a ram, a bull, twins, ect.
> 
> These are my interpretations of the Black Zodiac - if I had been given the premise of Thirteen Ghosts and the Black Zodiac, what I would do with it. It's not so much a fanfic as it is a rewrite.
> 
> Not beta-read.
> 
> Word count: 9,012

She could feel their anger, their terror. It permeated the surrounding air, infected the whole town - the cobblestones, the houses, the wildflowers valiantly growing on the side of the road. She breathed in deep, pressing her lips together in a smile she knew would make them uneasy. Her lips quirked a little at the thought, almost transforming her smile into something more friendly. She continued onward, her eyes straight ahead, pointedly ignoring the townsfolk glaring at her, though she delighted in the quick succession of slammed front doors and windows, as though shutting themselves up in their houses would prevent her from making her way down the road to the old house at the edge of the cliff.

***

The front door opened and a boy - young man now - appeared. His features schooled into a firmness children associated with adults; his brows furrowed, his still bright and inquisitive eyes darkening, his jaw set and mouth firmly drawn. He looked up at her, likely readying himself to speak in a deep voice, when his eyes widened, and the facade fell. 

He grinned toothily. “Aunt Roisin!” he greeted. His voice fluctuated slightly, croaking between young and old vocal chords. 

She smiled at him, her nose wrinkling up like a rabbit. “Hello, Brendan. Your da and brother out today?”

“Yeah. I have to - I’m watching Ma and the girls.” He puffed out his chest a little at that.

“Big responsibility, taking care of two little girls.” Roisin nodded behind him. “Mind if I come in?”

“Oh, yeah -.” Brendan stepped to the side, allowing Roisin to walk in. He shut the door behind her and scooted in the small entryway around her. “Ma and the girls - they’re this way.”

Roisin nodded, though he was no longer looking. She followed him down the hallway and into the main room of the house. A small kitchen to the right, a fireplace to the left, and two bedrooms ahead. The women of the house sat before the fireplace, the two young girls on the floor, and the mother in a chair, her hands folded in her lap. 

Roisin put her bag down and walked over to the trio. The little girls looked up, shocked out of their silence. Immediately the youngest dropped her needlepoint and ran to Roisin, wrapping her arms around her middle and screaming, “Aunt Roisin’s here! Aunt Roisin’s here!”

“Keep your voice down! You don’t want to disturb the town!” She smiled down at her, thinking of how marvelous it would be if the town heard her niece’s excited shouts at her arrival. She gave her a squeeze and pulled herself free, kneeling next to the mother. 

The woman didn’t seem to have heard her daughter’s shouting. Her brows furrowed, but her eyes were blank, staring into the fire as though in a trance. Roisin put her hand on hers. 

“Elowen,” she said. The woman’s eyes fluttered, but she did not move. “Elowen, look at me.” She scrunched her eyebrows up and finally tore herself away from the fire. She stared at Roisin, who patiently stared back, Elowen’s bright eyes roaming over her face before she broke into a grin similar to her children’s. 

“Rosie! Rosie, Rosie, I knew you would come!” Elowen slid out of her chair and crawled to her, wrapping her arms around her neck and burrowing her face in the throat. “I knew you were here - I could feel it - everything felt so warm and light and -”

“Goodness, where was this woman to greet me at the door?” Elowen giggled and stopped, burrowing her face further into her sister’s neck. Roisin rubbed her hand across her back, and she started to shake. Roisin looked at her nieces and nephews and jerked her head. Brendan nodded and grabbed his youngest sister’s hand, pulling her towards the door. Their other sister followed. “What’s all this about, Elowen?”

“Oh, oh, Rosie!” Elowen lifted her head, her large eyes filled with tears. She sniffled. “Ma - Ma - Mama -”

“I know, dear, I know.” Elowen wailed and threw herself into her arms. “That’s no reason to get into hysterics. You were fine a moment ago.”

“Mama is gone, Rosie. She’s gone and -”

“And what? Ma was sick, just as Da was sick. Things happen, Elowen.” She rubbed her sister’s back. “But we don’t wail like infants over it, at least not days later. We cry, we mourn, and we continue on. It wouldn’t do for us to dwell on what we lost.” She kissed her head. “If we focus on Ma or Da...well look at you! Brendan greeted me at the door, the girls were needle pointing - who decided for them to do that?” Elowen mumbled something through her tears. “You were here, wallowing in sadness, while you have four children to watch over. You’re lucky Brendan, Thomas, and Brigid have a good head on their shoulders. What would happen to Meara if I hadn’t come?”

Elowen sniffed, pushing her face further into her sister’s shoulder. Roisin held her, rubbing her hand down her back. “It’s all right, Elowen,” she said after a moment. 

***

Her funeral was a far darker affair than their father’s had been. Perhaps it was the lack of sunlight, heavy gray clouds blocking its rays and casting everything in a cool shadow. Or it could have been the large number of people surrounding the casket, saying nothing, barely moving, like statues in their finest and darkest clothing. However, Roisin thought it was more likely Elowen that set the somber tone. Less than a minute in, and her sister had flung herself over the casket, wailing. Her children had stood in place, staring at the ground; Meara had glanced at their mother before turning her attention to her scuffed shoes. Rosin had stared at her sister before locking eyes with her brother-in-law. He’d swallowed, shaking his head minutely before he sank to the ground next to his wife and wrapped his arm around her shaking shoulders.

Roisin listened to the father as he recounted the life of Fiona Murphy, his voice barely noticeable over Elowen’s crying. She pursed her lips. He didn’t have any idea who she was. Father Michael recalled Fiona’s passion for the church, her biweekly attendance; how she helped everyone in the town as was her Christian duty. If she were standing here, her mother would be outraged. Not visibly - Fiona had not been one for public emotions other than joy - but internally. Roisin could imagine her mother’s mouth twitching, fighting a frown, a faint crease appearing between her heavy eyebrows, her bright eyes darkening. Little signs that the family could pick up on and know her true feelings. Things that apparently the others in town did not bother to examine or even look at. 

She took a deep breath and glanced around at the attendees. The group looked almost the same from the last time she had come back for her father’s funeral, though there was something off. It was an eerie feeling, uncanny, like she knew the lines to a play but they were missing certain articles and nouns were replaced. The feeling was the same, and many important people were there; the difference now was slight and in the form of new faces; the children who had stood next to their parents mourning the kind, burly ginger at the end of the lane atop the cliff, were now the ones clutching the hands of small children, standing stoically before the casket.

Andrew O’Connell, a rail thin man about four years Roisin’s senior, stood closest to her, his hands in his pockets and his body several inches away from his wife, the eldest Fye daughter, Emily. Nearby, the Duggins twins watched the scene with their respective families; Conan with the youngest Fye daughter, Enya and their young son; Emmet impassively staring ahead while Cait tried to quiet their youngest child, who hadn’t stopped whimpering since they arrived. The family that truly caught Roisin’s attention was the McQuillens. Four of Aengus and Sibeal McQuillens’ children were present with their own children, standing a considerable space away from Roisin’s left side, a fact that she did not miss.

Fergus, Sean, Niamh, and Riordan. By many accounts the four best people in their town, all thanks to the wonderful parenting they got from the marvelous Aengus and Sibeal. Roisin held back a scoff. One of the first things Fiona taught her daughters was the lack of importance in church attendance. Sure, it maintained connections and kept you in the good graces of people in the town, but it showed nothing of your character. And no one exemplified that more than the four living adult children and in-laws of the repugnant Aengus and Sibeal McQuillen.

Jane O’Gorman - a McQuillen by law now - noticed Roisin looking at her in-laws and looked over. She smiled, a beautiful sight. Her broad dimples and scrunched nose filled Roisin with a warmth she had only experienced one time before. She smiled back, but before she could do anything else, Fergus McQuillen spotted them. A sneer crossed the giant’s face and he wrapped his arm firmly around Jane’s waist, pulling her closer to him. Her eyes widened, and she bit her lip, looking apologetically at Roisin before she physically turned away to face the front. Roisin swallowed, hoping the action would quench the angry fire burning inside. The O’Gormans were kind people, always talked to Elowen like a person and not an idiot; it’s a shame their only daughter had such poor taste in men. 

***

“Ma says you’re a teacher.”

Roisin paused, holding a sheet just centimeters from the clothing line. A small girl, no older than five, stood a few feet before her. Her dark brown hair had been carefully braided, and her clothes were pressed and clean. Abnormally large brown eyes blinked up at Roisin. Roisin shook out the sheet and placed it on the line, smoothing it out. 

“You Cait Wyse’s?” She had to be. The Wyse family was famous for their owl-like eyes and an abundance of freckles.

The girl wrinkled her brow for a second. “That’s my ma.”

“You look exactly like her.” And a good thing, too. No one wanted to look like a Duggins. Roisin picked up another sheet and shook it out with a flourish. “Yes, I am a teacher.”

“Why didn’t you teach here?”

A smile curled Roisin’s mouth for a moment before she dropped it. “Don’t get paid much here. Everything is done on trade, which does you well in a small town like this, but in the grand scheme of things -” Roisin shrugged. 

“Is that why you left for the city?”

“Aye.” She smoothed her hand across the sheet-covered line. It was better if the child thought money motivated her to leave her home. Children at that age did not need to know about their parents’ ill-wills. 

“Then why are you back?”

Roisin softly smiled. She picked up the laundry basket and set it on her hip. For a moment, she stood, the clothing line separating her and the Duggins girl. “My ma died, and my sister needs help raising her children.”

The girl nodded. She had to have known this. Everyone in the town knew about Elowen’s reliance on Fiona. She likely needed to hear it for herself instead of from the town gossip. Good girl.

She opened her mouth to ask another question. Roisin turned and gestured with her head for the girl to follow; she skirted around the hanging sheets and rushed after her, walking in stride with Roisin’s long legs. 

“You’re full of questions.”

“You’re full of answers.”

A wide grin broke across Roisin’s face. “And you’re very clever.”

The girl - given her age, she must have been Innis, no Einin - flushed. She bit her lip. Keeping her gaze on the ground she asked, “are you still teaching, then?”

Roisin opened the front door. “My nieces and nephews, sure. I doubt anyone else would want me talking to their children -”

“Why?”

She hummed. “I... don’t follow the lessons parents want to be taught.” She glanced down at Einin who stared back. “I teach what we know as fact - maths, reading, science, spelling - and...rarely resort to stories from church.”

“You teach about other things though.”

Roisin nodded slowly. “If asked...I’m much more comfortable talking about the Others than I am about the word of the Lord. One is interpreted differently across the world, while the other is more commonly understood.” She straightened. “Now, I think your parents will be wondering where you are off -”

“Would you teach me?”

Roisin blinked. Her mouth opened in what she was sure was a ridiculous fashion; her eyes widened comically like one of those bleary-eyed crabs her brother-in-law and most of the townsmen caught and sold in nearby towns. 

Einin continued, clarified, “Would you teach me about the...Others?”

She shut her mouth and schooled her features into what she hoped was a calm expression. “Sure, dear,” she said. “Now, off you go back home; don’t want your mother worrying about you.”

Einin gave her a wide smile and ran off, shouting thanks as she sprinted down the hill.

***

Three weeks later and Roisin found herself walking through the woods, a small gathering of children following in her wake like chattering goslings. The lessons had started quiet and simple enough. Everyday around tea, Einin would climb the hill to the Killion household and sit on Roisin’s lessons on the Others that called Ireland their home. An hour and a half later, she would say goodbye and head back home. A few days into their lessons, she brought her cousin with her, Eamon, a young boy who was painfully quiet and, rather unfortunately looked like his father. A few days after that, Einin’s brother Locklan joined them, then the O’Connell siblings, Andrew and Isabella. Each day, Roisin opened the door and greeted her new students, calmly asking Thomas or Breandan - whoever of her nephews had not accompanied their father crabbing - to put more water in the kettle. 

It had been quiet and even relaxing to teach the young children of the village until the McQuillen children showed up. Thomas had answered the door. There had been a pause, and Roisin had stopped talking, instead telling her nephew to let whoever in. There was more silence before the door shut, and Thomas came into the room with five McQuillens in tow. He had stared at his aunt, though she had not looked at him, zeroing in on the children before him.

They looked like McQuillens, as though Aengus and Sibeal’s children duplicated themselves rather than having intercourse. All five had the same reddish-brown hair and green eyes. Aiden McQuillen - the only son of Fergus and Jane - and his two cousins, brothers Ciaran and Nicholas had the same square jaw and wide nose the McQuillen men had. Breanna and her cousin Una were lanky as the women were, while the boys were stocky and large. 

Roisin had swallowed her gaze on Una. The youngest McQuillen present had stared back, a toothy grin on her bright face. All McQuillens looked like each other, but young Una looked more like her namesake than her father or her other aunt. After a moment she’d nodded and gestured to the crowded main room. “If you’re here for the lesson take a seat. Thomas, put another kettle on.”

Now Roisin led the way to their next lesson, thirteen children - the two O’Connells, three Duggins, five McQuillens and four of her own nieces and nephews - following her, eager as they were every day for her lessons. 

“Careful, now,” she shouted over her shoulder, stepping over a fallen log. “We’re almost there…”

The children followed her over the log and into the small clearing. An eerie feeling settled over them, quiet and calm, with something more sinister lurking beneath the surface. The forest was dark here, the trees and bushes were lush and green, with deep brown branches and trunks. They circled the group in a manner that felt natural but fearful, as though nature itself was frightened of the center of the clearing. 

Roisin paused as all the children entered the clearing before slowly walking to the center. Large rocks formed a dilapidated circle in the middle of the clearing. The grass was brown there, a stark contrast to the vibrant green on the other side of the rocks. 

She stopped at the edge of the circle, her boots snapping together as she stared forth. The children gathered around, more cautious than she had approaching the circle. As they filed along the perimeter, she spoke.

“Out of all the things I could teach you, this is possibly the most important. This..is a faerie circle.”

Eamon Duggins’s eyes widened, and he leaned forward, placing his hands on the rocks. The others glanced at Roisin who looked from the circle to Eamon. “That’s as far as you’ll want to go, dear.” He snatched his hands back and rubbed them on his bottom. 

She continued. “Faerie circles are doorways between our world and the fey’s. They can come and go as they please, but humans...we have to follow their rules.” She glanced at the children. Andrew O’Connell was now sitting, leaning forward to peer over the rocks. His sister poked at a cluster of moss, catching the eyes of Einin and Breanna McQuillin. Only Roisin’s nieces and nephews and Una McQuillen gave Roisin their full attention. Her mind flashed to this forest decades ago, another McQuillen in her place.

_ Una McQuillin, the youngest daughter of Aengus and Sibeal McQuillen sat in front of Roisin Murphy, the eldest daughter of Peader and Fiona Murphy. It had been a near miracle the pair of them had been able to get away from their responsibilities at home. Roisin could finally get away when Elowen and their mother went out to the neighboring town; Una, who had slipped away during another one of her mother’s outburst, had already been sitting by the faerie circle, absently braiding wildflowers together. She broke into a grin as Roisin collapsed cross-legged before her. The two of them sat like that for a while basking in each other’s presence. _

_ “Tell me about the faeries, Rose,” Una said. She glanced over at Roisin who turned and gave her a small smirk in an attempt to hide the pink flush she got every time Una referred to her as Rose. Roisin stretched and stood, running her hand along the rock circle as she slowly followed its perimeter. _

_ “What do you want me to tell you?” _

_ Una shrugged. “Tell me about all the faeries.” _

_ Roisin let out a huff as though Una had asked a great task of her. “All the faeries, eh? Let’s see if I can remember my lessons…” She continued to circle, coming closer to Una. “The brownies are more of a house faeries; they see your home as _ theirs _ and expect you to take care of it or else -” _

_ “A bit like da and mum.” _

_ “The changeling is more sinister. They take babes from their beds and slide into their place. Sometimes the babe is sent to the fey’s world, while other times -” Roisin gave an exaggerated shudder “-the changeling takes the place of the child, growing up and being mischievous, disobeying, and a wreck at best. At worst, they’ll destroy the whole family just for fun.” _

_ “Don’t like those much.” Una twisted another flower into her design. _

_ “Some faeries are...terrifying. But all of them come from the old gods.” Una made a non-committable noise. “And whatever you say about the old gods, one thing is for certain -” _

_ “They’re old and annoying?” _

_ “They’re stunning. Too beautiful for most to comprehend.” Roisin dropped behind Una, pressing her lips to the shell of her ear. “Bit of a pity, really, people too blind to know what they’re missing.” A smile tugged at the corner of Una’s mouth and she quickly spun around, pressing her lips to Roisin’s. Roisin sighed as they broke apart, breaking into an easy smile, while something soft and slightly damp touched her braids. She glanced up, her eyes crossing; a large bloom obscured her vision. _

_ Una grinned, crinkling her nose. She raised her hand and stroked it along Roisin’s cheek, across the tough pink skin of her cheek and forehead. “I’m so lucky to have been gifted with the sight, then.” The other half of Roisin’s face flushed pink as Una leaned in and kissed her, dragging her lips down across her chin, her jaw - _

Roisin shook her head slightly, blinking rapidly. The thirteen children she had led to the circle were staring up at her in a mix of confusion and concern. She looked around, straightening her blouse, and coughing loudly at Einin and Breanna who were peering into the circle, leaning firmly over the rocks and causing a few broken pieces to tumble.

“We do not mess with the faerie circle, children.” Quickly, they jolted back, eyes wide in fear and guilt. She made a point of sternly looking at each child in the eye before continuing. “There is a reason our world is separate from theirs. Faeries do not see humans any different from you see your chickens or horse - a fun thing to play with until the time comes.”

***

The time came far too quickly for Eamon Duggins. Roisin sat at the back of the church staring into her lap while Father Michael spoke on the tragedy of his short life, and how He always had a plan. She could hear the sobs from Enya Duggins as her husband wrapped an arm around her, but she couldn’t bring herself to look up.

The melancholy that punctured her mother’s funeral was nothing compared to this. As Fiona was lowered into the ground, there had been a sense of ease with the sadness - she had been old and sick when she passed. Now in the Kingdom of God, she would be young and healthy again. Today, there was none of that. A queasy feeling punctured the Father’s speech, permeating the room, causing everyone to shift in their chairs. The unspeakable tragedy of a child’s death, particularly one so sudden, charged the room with a sinister amount of melancholy. 

“Rosie.”

Roisin didn’t move. She continued to stare at her knees even as her brother-in-law leaned in. He placed his hands - large, callused- on top of hers and squeezed. She swallowed. And closed her eyes.

“Rosie...would you like to stay? Say...say something to him?”

She wanted to. Oh, God she wanted to. Wanted to cradle the child’s body - hold his shoulders and rock him and tell him...tell him what a fool he was. She had told him - she had spent weeks telling all of them not to mess with the fey, that they would not take kindly to human interference or taunts; that the lessons were designed to teach them, to protect them. And yet, he continued to visit the circle, prodding it with a stick. He was curious, she knew, and a mind like that would have been so much better in a university or any setting that would challenge him.

She had caught him once, while walking through. He had jumped, dropping his stick into the circle. She had never used such a tone with any of the children. She dropped her basket and grabbed his shoulders, demanding to know what he thought he was doing; he had burst into tears and apologized. She had held him...should have held him tighter, the stupid, stupid sweet little boy.

Roisin shook her head. Tommy squeezed her hand and let go. He stood, the children following, and left. Service was over. Some part of Roisin’s brain knew that, but she couldn’t quite come to terms with it. The service being over meant Eamon was over. No more mourning for the public. Now they had to move on, go back to their lessons, tidying house, crabbing, trading - life was normal again. Enya would be a wreck - all parents were, especially the mother of the lost child; it would now be up to the town to bring her back, to remind her that her son, her only child, was with the Lord now, and gently bring her back into this new normalcy. Like how Roisin slipped into her mother’s place to bring Elowen back to her children and from her black garb.

After a moment, Roisin rose, her chin forward as she took a breath and made her way over to the casket. The Duggins were still there. Enya openly wept next to her son - during the service, she made her way to him, stumbling from her seat in the pews and placed her hand on his face. The action had overwhelmed her, and she collapsed, one hand inside the casket, touching her son. No one moved to help her. Conan and Emmet stood side by side, staring at her with the same tragic, helpless expression. Emmet’s wife knelt beside her, her arms around Enya, and her cheek against her brown curls. His children still sat in the pews, awkward and unsure of what to do. No one prepares a child for the death of a loved one, let alone that of another child. It isn’t because of ill-intentions, but the hope that it will never happen; that a parent or any adult will have to sit a small child down and explain why they can still run and play and grow, while their beloved cousin lies in a box underground.

As she approached, Einin looked up and gave Roisin a bright smile. There were tear tracks down her soft cheeks, but her eyes were alight with pure delight at Roisin’s presence. She gave a small smile in return and walked toward the casket.

A large hand landed on her shoulder, firm, and unyielding. She did not have to turn around to know that the hairy-knuckled hand belonged to Conan Duggins. 

“I came to pay my respects, Conan,” she said, her eyes still on the scene before her. 

He scoffed. “We don’t need your respect. Enya doesn’t want you any closer -”

“Enya doesn’t or you don’t?” She wouldn’t have been surprised either way, though the Feys were always a kind and welcoming family; frequently, the Murphy and Fey clans had dinner together and watched each other’s children. 

“He was fine until he started going to the Killion’s house.” Ignoring the question then. Fine. “I don’t blame Tommy or the kids, and Wen is... so -”

“So your natural conclusion is that I did something?”

The grip on her shoulder tightened. “It’s happened before.”

“Ah. I had forgotten I murder whenever I am home -”

Conan turned her around, and Roisin had to suppress a smile at his red face. _ Hit me _ , she thought. _ Give up your so-called morals and hit me. You want to please. _ She needed it, needed him to make her feel past the ache of loss and remembrance.

“A changeling always causes mayhem wherever they go.”

“Talking faeries in a church? Dear me, that’s a bit blasphemous isn’t it?” Roisin straightened. “And a changeling now? When did I come into existence, Conan? Was the real Roisin Murphy snatched from her cot while her parents slept? Is that why Elowen was born - because of my mischief and mayhem?” It was a theory, a rumor she had heard growing up. Whispers in church, stares down the street, all thinking they were inconspicuous, watching Roisin with her parents, eyes on her scars. “Or was it with Una -?”

A snarl over took Conan’s face, and he shoved Roisin away from him. She stepped backward, calmly, and smoothed her dark skirts. 

“I’ll respect your wishes, Conan. And though you wish me...ill, I’ll tell you...your son...Eamon’s a brilliant child.”

“Get out,” he snarled. His eyes welled up, gleaming and red. 

“I am.” Roisin walked around Conan, nodding to the children who watched her leave the church, looking like they were torn between staying put and following her.

Einin shouted, “good-day, Miss Murphy,” as she left. Roisin smiled, though she could hear Conan - or maybe Einin’s father, Emmet talking to her about yelling in a church or, more likely, conversing with Roisin.

***

_ “Rose?” _

_ Roisin didn’t look up. If she did, she would start crying again. She kept her head down, her eyes tightly shut, as though it would block out the world, like a child thinking they could hide in plain sight because as long as they didn’t see you, you couldn’t see them. _

_ The ground quietly rustled as Una sat next to Roisin, her skirt shuffling against the grass; she situated herself as close to Roisin as possible. She wrapped her arms around her middle, slowly, as though waiting for her to shrug her off. Roisin didn’t move. _

_ They sat in silence, facing the faerie circle they had come to see as their meeting spot, a special place where they would not be disturbed, caught between the faerie’s world and their own. Una pressed her lips to Roisin’s cheek and breathed in. _

_ “These tears...they’re unnecessary, love.” That only made them spill over, flowing down Roisin’s cheeks like rain off the roof in a thunderstorm. Una’s arms gripped her tighter, and she kissed Roisin’s cheeks over and over, murmuring, “it’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine,” like one of the Latin chants they learned and recited in church again and again. _

_ But despite how many times Una repeated the words, it would not be all right. She had been able to hide her coughing and her dwindling frame for weeks, arguably better than she had been able to hide these encounters with Roisin. But Roisin had noticed and put it together, noticed what the self-righteous and entitled Aengus and Sibeal McQuillen hadn’t, what neither of Una’s four brothers and sister had seen - the light-colored handkerchief smelling faintly of iron, despite its many washings, the almost skeletal feel of her hand in Roisin’s, how her ribs could be felt as Roisin stroked her hands down her sides, her smaller breasts, the circles under her bright and expressive eyes, the slight tang of iron when they kissed...Una was not long for this world, and despite her quiet prayers to God...He was not coming. _

***

Roisin slowly washed the Killion’s clothing. She needed to do something with her hands; if she didn’t, they’d turn on her, rubbing her arms raw, scratching welts on her skin, pulling her hair. Counter-productive to say the least, but Roisin barely had control over her tears; she needed relief from the emotions bubbling inside, threatening to burst forth.

There was another funeral at the church today. She had known upon waking up three days prior that something was not right. As she had put a kettle on, preparing to make breakfast for the family, she had heard a scream, shrill a deafening, shaking her to the core.

Roisin had hesitated for only a moment before rushing out. When she saw the town waking up quicker than usual, and heard another scream, she knew. Roisin had sunk down to her knees and cried until she heard one of the boys waking up, and she stood, wiping her face on her arm, and closing the front door behind her.

Tommy had asked her if she would like to attend service, but she declined, claiming there was too much to do. He had nodded and told her they would be back by lunch. He’d looked exhausted, heavy circles under his eyes, his hair limp. The worst were his eyes, empathetic and broken. Even now, Roisin could feel that look of pity as she sorted the laundry, and her heart ached just a little more. 

Elowen had wrapped her arms around her, saying nothing before kissing her head and following Tommy down the hill. Braendan and Thomas kissed their aunt’s cheek, followed by Brigid and Meara, and then all four children left. Roisin had watched them before tears quietly, unassumingly fell down her cheeks.

She rang out a shirt before shaking and hanging it on the clothesline. She could see them, lying in small, open coffins with their mothers wept, and the Father fell into his practiced, through painful sermon.

Andrew O’Connell Junior would be in his best suit, likely the only suit the ten-year-old owned. His shoes would shine and his hair would finally be combed and parted neatly; no erratic cowlicks twisting up at the back of his head or by his left ear. Neat and tidy as the good Lord would want him. She wondered if he was holding his Bible, if it was in his left hand or right. There would be no pink flush on his face, no buck-toothed grin; just a stoney, calm expression and meticulously groomed hair and clothes.

Isabella O’Connell would be in one of her many dresses. Another church-approved one, though the color could be almost anything. Roisin hoped they placed her in the red and orange skirt, one that had large buttons; it had been her favorite, something she had informed Roisin many times, pointing out that it highlighted her robin’s egg blue eyes. It had.

Or perhaps her parents dressed her in something more fitting of the event. Her navy colored dress was another favorite, and one she only wore on Easter Sunday and for service on Christmas. As long as it wasn’t the long-sleeved black frock she wore a fortnight ago to Eamon’s funeral. The irony would be too great to bear.

Roisin imagined the coffins would be facing each other, the brother and sister’s heads pointed towards each other, separated only by the wood of their coffins. They would be clean, cleaner than they would have been in life. And somehow, as she imagined these two bodies lying before their mother, father, and extended family. Roisin knew they would even be clean of any markings to indicate why too perfectly healthy children died so soon after the death of her dear friend and classmate. No open wounds in need of cleaning and stitches. No sickly pallor or sunken eyes. No blood caked on their lips. Without the slow rise and fall of either Andrew or Isabella’s chests, the two would look like they had just fallen asleep.

Roisin clenched her eyes shut. A harsh blast of wind rustled her skirt and hair, stinging her eyes. The bell atop the church rang out, a beastly noise on the quiet and numbingly somber tone of the day. There was a sound of crushed gravel crunching beneath the heels of everyone. No murmurs, no laughter followed them out. Just the haunting echo of the bell and the soft crunching of their shoes as they wandered back home. 

***

_ Everyone attended Una’s funeral. No other person had been so beloved by the community; no other child raised by Aengus and Sibeal had passed. _

_ The Murphys stood near the McQuillens in the church as they had forever, when Abban Murphy brought his wife, daughters, and young son Peader to stand next to Patrick McQuillen and his family. Roisin kept her eyes on her skirts, watching the dark fabric catch the light from the windows and shimmer. She felt dry, empty like an old well. She had cried for days after Una’s death, and now, on the day her tears would have been more than understood, her face was dry. Her father placed his arm over her shoulders, drawing her close to him. Roisin allowed it, clenching her eyes even tighter against a sudden assault of pain. _

_ She opened her eyes. Roisin glanced to the McQuillens, feeling slightly sick as she did so, knowing she would not like what she saw, that empty space between Peader and Niamh would twist her insides, and she might throw up. _

_ Roisin and Niamh stared at each other. Something hot burned behind Roisin’s eyes, while her stomach filled with ice. She swallowed as Niamh leaned into her brother, and Riordan in turn whispered to their eldest brother. Fergus set his jaw and looked around the two of them. His eyes were dark, a snarl curling his lip. Fury came off him in waves, crashing into Roisin’s tired body, her exhausted heart. She looked between the three of them, remembering their cautious approach to her and Elowen, a steadiness that infuriated her for years until Una and her began meeting in the woods. As long as their encounters occurred, Roisin looked back at Una’s family with a smirk, even more amused by the smile Una fought to keep off her face. A part of her always knew they would blame her for something. She was too proud, too sure of herself with that scar across her face and torso; if Roisin had been scarless, she would still have been condemned, however her ugliness seemed to make people think she should be meek, as though her scar was a message from God to worship Him and not the fey, and to humble herself. _

_ Roisin watched them for a moment longer before the burning sensation returned, scorching her eyes and throat. She swallowed and allowed a grin of all teeth to spread her lips. _

_ Niamh recoiled and whispered something to Riordan, who sneered at Roisin. His eyes, though, were wide and wet. He was scared. Roisin’s smile widened. She continued to smile as the three of them turned away and faced their younger sister’s casket, as the father prattled on about the kingdom of eternity and as they finally left for home. _

***

This time, Roisin went to the church. She didn’t go to the funeral, though, knowing that her presence would set everything in motion, and she did not want the Killion’s to see anything. She stood in the mud, the back of her head resting against the while exterior. She could hear mumblings of someone - Father Michael, perhaps. He looked so tired nowadays, stressed about the funerals, the number of times parents had come to him begging for his help in protecting their children against whatever was killing them. Roisin wondered if he was losing his faith in the Lord and returning to the fey and, from the whispers around town, he would not be the only one.

Despite everyone’s claim that they have abandoned the old ways, their growing paranoia suggested otherwise. Roisin still noticed them praying or clutching their rosaries, about as often as she noticed people donning silver or shutting their doors at twilight. It would have amused her if the image of the three children nicely packed away in coffins was not so pervasive in her mind.

The air had been tense, thick, as the Killion’s and Roisin walking about the town. They had all known that something was wrong, an unease unsettling the group as a murder of crows might. Braedan had caught up with them, painting, his eyes red and wide. Elowen took her eldest son in her arms and rocked him, shushing him as he fought to get the words out.

“M-McQuillen - and - and Duggins -.” His speech had started to slip away as tears finally came and caressed his cheeks.

Roisin had swallowed and stared in the direction Braedan had come from. The McQuillen homes were quiet, unnaturally so.

“It’s all right, Braedan.” Tommy had rubbed his son’s back. “It’ll be fine.”

“No. No. No.” Braedan’d stopped talking, the words caught as he finally started sobbing.

Roisin had straightened and gently pulled her sister off her son. “I will walk Braedan home. No, Elowen,” she added as Elowen opened her mouth in protest, “you have errands to run. I will take him home, and we will see you soon.” She had looked at Tommy who carefully took his wife’s arm and led her to the bakery.

Roisin had taken her nephew back, stopping every few feet when he froze, fresh tears blurring his vision. She’d kept her arm wrapped around his upper back, squeezing him tightly each time he stopped. At the house, she had calmed him enough to put him in his bed. Roisin had sat in front of the empty fireplace, her eyes glazed over, expression neutral. 

Through the walls of the church, she heard crying, sobbing. One of the mothers. She closed her eyes and breathed in through her nose. Her eyes burned, an almost unbearable pressure building behind them as she swallowed and fought back her own tears. The murmurings grew quieter, and she nodded. Roisin pushed herself off the wall and straightened her skirts. With her jaw clenched and eyes still burning, she turned and made her way towards the cliff.

Six caskets in a month. Six dead children, all bright and beautiful and wonderful. Children who made the mistake of playing with the faeries, of not heeding her warnings even when she was standing next to them and shouting. 

But that’s not how the town saw it. Roisin climbed past the graveyard. Since the day her scars healed, when she was only three-years-old, they were uncertain of her. They had claimed they loved her as they loved any young child in the town, but it was all a lie. God wouldn’t have given her that face if He trusted her, if she wasn’t working for the devil. It didn’t matter that she was a curious toddler, that she had pulled the boiling kettle down with no help from the Father or the Holy Spirit. They didn’t see it that way. A belief that was reinforced when the townspeople realized Elowen was taking longer to walk, to speak, to even crawl. They hadn’t blamed Fiona or Peader, but rather their eldest child, the one God punished so many years prior.

She finally reached the cliff and simply stood, looking out at the sea. Her skin prickled, and she desperately wanted to run. A silly thing. Where would she go? She could go back to the city, but to leave her family like that was unbearable. And besides - Roisin smiled a little - she wanted to see the sea.

Far below, muffled by the sound of the waves hitting the rocks, Roisin could hear the people leave the funeral, their shoes crunching on the rocky road. She didn’t turn around, watching the skyline. Her skin was sensitive, her ears hot. Everything seemed to be standing on end, though she refused to move from her spot. 

The grass behind her quietly rustled. She breathed in the salty air as the rustling stopped right behind her. They stood like that for a moment, Roisin and the towns person, neither speaking for several minutes. 

“We had always wanted a boy.” The voice was gruff, bordering on hoarse, as though he had rarely used it. Roisin swallowed, picturing Fergus McQuillen standing behind her, his abnormally large figure hovering behind her, eyes red and raw, jaw set. Her heart pounded in her chest. “Janey and I...we tried for years.” Fergus thickly swallowed; Roisin could feel her own throat bob with the movement. “Ardan, Eoghan, Seamus - none of ‘em lasted more than a few weeks. I told Janey not to name ‘em, but she couldn’t help it.” He sniffed. “I wasn’t much better. Referred to each one as my boy the moment they were born. Aiden...we prayed to God every day that he would live, just a little longer, a little longer than his brothers. And the Lord blessed us. You weren’t there for his christening, but it was perfect. He...he was perfect.” Fergus swallowed again. When he spoke, his voice was lower, harsher. “And you killed him.”

Roisin didn’t move, didn’t breathe. She stared ahead, keenly aware of the rustling of

grass, the quiet murmurs of more people joining the pair of them. She hoped the Killion’s were still making their way up the cliff. There was a quiet shuffle, and Fergus was beside her, facing the ocean beside her. Roisin chanced a side-ways glance at him. His jaw was set, his hands in his pockets. 

“Ma and da said the Murphys were good people, swore it up and down that they were God-fearing Christians. But I knew. The moment you started walking about town with your own ma, I knew there was something wrong about you. When El was born it made sense; God sent you here to test us. And we failed. Una was not strong enough.” He breathed in deeply, his eyes glassy. “And neither were the children. All failed their test...Una, Aiden, Breanna...Einin...all of them. I can only hope He forgives them quickly.”

Roisin kept her face neutral. She felt like she should say something, comment on Fergus’s understanding of the church’s teachings, recite something about Icarus and the children taking her warnings and prodding the faeries, the sun, before crumbling. She said nothing. 

Fergus turned to face her fully, blocking out some of the light with his massive body. “You’ve been nothing but a curse upon this town. We have seen your temptations, and we lean more strongly into the Lord. We cast you out.”

She smiled, breathing in deep before turning to meet Fergus and the rest of the crowd. “And it only took six children to die before you reached that conclusion. Dear me, Fergus. A little late to the class...or was it only an issue when your own child was taken?”

The response was instant. Fergus’s face twisted, and he lunged forward grabbing Roisin’s throat. She didn’t struggle, going with him, smiling and closing her eyes. His grip tightened. The crowd closed in, reaching for her, touching her. Roisin would not be long now. Her heart thumped wildly, her lungs panicking; she wished they would simply stop. It would be much easier if they did so. 

As they drew closer, as her heart and lungs screamed for release, as the darkness behind her eyelids drew darker, more saturated with shadows, she saw her. Bright red hair, wide grin. Beautiful, healthy. Roisin smiled. Whether this was Heaven or Hell didn’t matter. Una was here.

  


***

215 Years Later

“You must be here for the wedding.”

The man looked up and smiled. “Indeed.” He finished signing his name in the inn’s welcome book and put the pen back in his pocket.

“So many people coming over from the States - I figured that’s why you were here; not many people come to our little town.” He continued to smile at the old innkeeper as she prattled on. “Are you here for the bride or the groom?”

“The bride,” he said, picking up his luggage. The smile on his face never wavered. “Would you be so kind as to show me to my room?”

The flustered innkeeper flushed and said something to the effect of, “of course, Mr. O'Callaghan,” before leaving the front desk and showing the man upstairs. "Please," he said, grinning with far too many teeth, "call me Cyrus."

***

Tadhg stood at the top of the cliff, watching the townspeople and wedding guests scurry around in final preparations for his cousin’s wedding. He had woken up early, his stomach cramping, as he read then re-read his best-man speech. He had tried to take his mind off the whole speaking by leaving the inn and trying to help at the church or the pub where the reception would be held. However, there were too many people in both spots; some were locals, eagerly talking about the tourists coming in, while others were family, wanting to stop him and talk to Tadhg about his own upcoming nuptials. It had been too much. He had excused himself and walked up to the cliff. 

He sat on a crooked boulder, just watching, hoping his stomach would stop flipping, his heart would cease pounding so loudly.

“Lovely day to be wed.”

Tadhg nodded. A young woman sat next to him, her spine completely straight.His skin itched like he should move but he thought that would be too rude. Instead, he glanced at her from his peripheral vision. She was odd looking, dressed in some old-fashioned dress with long sleeves and a heavy skirt. Her ginger hair was twisted into a plait that was coming undone. A small portion of her face was freckled and smooth, while the other side was scarred. Both her eyes were bright, but wary and stern.

He swallowed, clenching his hand on his tuxedo pants. His heart thumped louder, more violently in his chest. “Ashleigh has always been lucky.”

The woman hummed. They were silent for a minute, before the woman’s closeness and his anxieties about the ceremony got the best of him and Tadhg started talking. “We, uh, we were going to get married here.” He swallowed, feeling his ears and neck heat. “Harry and I...we wanted to get married at his home. Thought it was beautiful. His whole family’s been married here.” The woman turned her head, still watching the people below. “But, we weren’t sure if...well, if we...if we could, you know. So, when Ashleigh was looking for a place, ah, Harry suggested here. I mean, her dad’s an O’Callaghan, his family’s from here, so…” Tadhg nodded. “Now that the law’s been passed...we’re not taking it away from her and Malik. Probably stick to our plan of marrying at home, but uh, maybe having a second wedding here, you know? His family still lives...lives in the country…”

The woman gave a small smile. “Aye. I’ve heard that.” Tadhg nodded. He thought she would. “A Killion always lives in the town.” She turned to him, her eyes soft and warm. Tadhg’s stomach stopped turning for a moment, warming and filling him with a sense of comfort. He smiled softly in return as she continued. “Maida and her family live here...lovely people. They’re thrilled Harry decided to continue the tradition of marrying at their ancestral home. And that you will be entering the family.”

Tadhg blushed, flighting back a smile. It was one of his favorite things about the Killion’s, though he struggled to admit it publicly. Not only had they accepted their only son, but they opened their arms to Tadhg himself, something that took his own immediate family several years to do. He had really lucked out meeting him - handsome guy, smart, funny, the chubbiest cheeks perfect for squishing, and a fantastic family to boot. 

“If you are nervous…”the woman started. Tadhg jumped, his stomach flipping again; he had almost forgotten the woman was sitting there. “...well, it would be silly of me to tell you there is no reason to be nervous. No one likes to hear that, and frankly, it doesn’t help. But from what I have seen, Ashleigh really loves you. Anything you said would please her and her new husband.”

The warm feeling expanded in his body, filling Tadhg like a balloon. He smiled, clenching and unclenching the fabric of his tuxedo trousers before standing up. He ran his hand down them, smoothing them out as much as possible. Tadhg nodded, blew out a deep breath and turned. Before he left, he stopped, his heart fluttering a little. “Thank you...I...I hope you found her.” The woman straightened further, her eyes widening slightly. She said nothing. Tadhg swallowed. “Your...the...I hope you’ve seen her since...and I hope you’re happy.” He left, not looking back, his body still filling warm, though his neck and ears were burning. He focused on the warmth in his chest and stomach, allowing it to take over as he made his way back to the town below.

The woman continued to sit on the boulder, watching him stumble back down the cliff like a newborn foal. Her heart ached, though she continued to smile. She hadn’t found her, instead of waking up at her own funeral, attended only by her family and later by a quiet Jane O’Gorman, feeling both alone and apart of something. Her youngest niece hadn’t taken her eyes off her, eyes wide and mouth open while Father Michael delivered his last funeral speech before he left the town for good. Being seen by Meara and later the rest of the family almost filled the hole, the empty feeling still remaining from Una’s death. 

“Step one foot closer to the house and I will kill you.”

A man laughed and came over. He sat next to her on the boulder, occupying the space Tadhg had sat, though with none of his warmth. Roisin set her jaw. 

“How did you know I was there, may I ask?”

“You aren’t quiet. I’m sure if the boy weren’t so nervous, he’d have heard you too. Now what do you want?”

“Getting to the point, then?”

She refused to look at him. “I will not go around the subject. You are here for something and I will not allow you to take it from that house.”

The man smiled, sitting himself more comfortably on the boulder. “What makes you think I want anything from the house?”

Roisin said nothing. She closed her eyes for a moment then turned to the man. He was hideous, his suit ill-fitting and his demeanor cold, cruller than anything Fergus McQuillen or anyone else could have hoped to have been. “I have no idea what you want,” she said, her voice hard. “I know you are not here simply for the wedding, and that you have ill-will. I will not allow that near my family.”

He smiled. “Such a loving aunt you are.”

“Aye.”

“You have always been willing to do anything for them -”

Roisin held up her hand. “Do not talk about them. Whatever you want, do it now, and do not let the Killion’s know. Don’t let any of them know or be involved.”

The man let out a soft chuckle, reaching into the pocket of his suit. “Of course.” He placed a black box between the pair of them and she was gone. He stood, pocketing the box and making his way down the cliff, so absorbed in his own thoughts he did not notice his great-nephew stopped a few feet away having dropped his best man's speech and attempting to pick it up. 

***

_2001 13 GHOSTS_ VS. **2018 13 GHOSTS**

Black Zodiac: The Withered Lover is the ghost of a person with either a withered appearance or dreams that have been lost/destroyed.

_One December, Jean Kriticos and her family were asleep when a log rolled out of the fire and set their house ablaze. Her husband and two children were able to escape. Jean was not. _

**Roisin was always the town's outcast because of her proud nature despite her scarred face. It was furthered when her secret lover died. Though the town claims to be Christian (Catholic), they still believe in the fey, and see Roisin as either a test from the Lord or a changling. When children start to die with no known reason, Roisin is blamed and is murdered by the town. **

Both women were withered in appearance, though Jean became withered as she died and Roisin had been that way since she was a child. Jean loved her family and made sure they escaped the fire, with little concern for herself. Roisin was a lover in the sense that she had a girlfriend, loved her family, and cared deeply for the children she taught. One story is accidental, the other is the story of murder - both victims were just that, victims. 

Cancer: the town Roisin lives in is by the sea and focuses on crabbing (and the church).


End file.
